Chapter 10
Her diamonds glitter and flash in the sunlight. Henry can tell, even from this distance; the glimmer on her hand couldn’t be anything else.
Is this the start of Henry’s opening? The wife is outside alone, for the second day in a row.
He could change into running apparel. He’s not a runner, but who would know?
He’d only have to jog up the street until he disappeared from her view; then he could walk, savoring the knowledge that he’d gotten closer to her, and she to him.
But the unhappy couple lives directly across the street, so it would be odd for Henry to go straight across, toward their house, rather than simply head to the end of the street and cross over later.
He might be able to wave, to call out, Hello. But would he dare? Is it time?
The wife has flowers. Earlier in the morning, she went out briefly.
She walked uncertainly along the front of the house, lined with patches that once were gardens, now barren and in need of fresh mulch.
Her arms were crossed in front, hugging tightly, as though she were cold, but she couldn’t have been cold. Just a few seconds later, she was gone.
Scouting a spot, Henry now understands. Now she’s back, with a plastic tray of flowers.
He doesn’t know enough about flowers to know what kind they are, only that they’re orange and pink, velvet soft–looking petals, already wilting in the heat.
She’s digging her hands into the ground.
She didn’t remove her rings before she started, which Henry finds odd.
He recalls that when he was a child, his father lost his wedding band when he was gardening.
Years later, either his mom or his dad found the ring while planting annuals in the flower bed in front of their brick walkway.
For the first time, Henry wonders whether that story is even true.
Was it concocted later to explain away a period of years when marital discord silently burned beneath the surface, when his dad had refused to wear his ring?
Henry stands at the window, his book tucked under his arm. He’s picturing himself walking past just as the wife rises, turns away from the garden. He’ll lift a hand and wave, and she will, too. Maybe that would be enough for now.
But suddenly, the garage door lifts, and the husband emerges, khaki shorts and a bright-orange shirt with the number five. He’s the sort of man Henry’s dad could chat with about the Orioles. What a season! Think they have a chance?
The husband approaches his wife, but she remains crouched low, squinting up at him and into the sun. They speak for a few seconds.
And she never rises. This feels important. She initiates nothing. She wants him to go. She wants to finish her planting.
The husband bends. He’s above her, all over her, meeting her where she stays, as their lips meet so briefly that Henry almost misses it in a blink.
Then the husband turns away again, disappears into the garage. A few seconds later, his black sedan creeps out.
A sweet goodbye kiss. That’s what other people, who don’t know as much as Henry, might think. But there’s something possessive about the gesture. It doesn’t convince Henry that he is wrong, that the couple is happy after all. Rather, it tells him that he is exactly right.
He watches the wife a moment longer, then decides against going out.
The husband has marred the potentiality for a meeting.
He leaves the living room, steps into the kitchen.
He wants something to eat and drink, something better than the fare in his basement kitchenette.
He wants to graze on his parents’ snacks, fragrant honey-mustard pretzels, his favorite, and his mom’s.
She always gives him a sour, sternly displeased look when she catches him digging into the bag.
He was hoping his mother wouldn’t be around, but, of course, she’s here, lingering, looking slightly perplexed, as though she came into the kitchen to retrieve something but she can’t remember what it was.
“What were you doing?” she asks, tone suspicious, like he’s a toddler who has fallen unusually silent for a period.
“Just reading,” says Henry, holding up his closed paperback.
“Hmm,” she replies, and it’s nothing but a sound, but the judgment it holds. His anger flashes like a bulb that’s abruptly died.
“What, Mom?” he asks. “Just say it.” He’s weary. Her disappointment is like a migraine that never goes away, an unrelenting ache in the base of his skull that he occasionally, momentarily, forgets about, until the next interaction with her, until the next surge of pain.
“Well, it’s just…” She cuts herself off. “Should you be reading?”
Reading. The word is drenched with chastisement, as though she’s asked him if he really should be watching quite so much porn. Which, incidentally, he does. Although he’s virtually certain she doesn’t know about that.
“As opposed to what?” he asks, sighing.
It’s Saturday, late afternoon. She opens a cabinet, begins clattering pots, searching for the one she needs, as though she has a very limited amount of time to start cooking dinner, as though that isn’t all she has to do and her typical mealtime isn’t still hours away.
“As opposed to applying for jobs, Henry. How are you ever going to find a new job?”
It’s a seemingly fair question, but his inability to secure employment isn’t due to lack of trying.
“I apply for jobs every day,” he says, defensive. This is an exaggeration, but he doubles down. “Every single day. The market is difficult.” His tone is gentle now, as though he couldn’t possibly expect her to understand anything about the market.
“I just don’t understand why you’ve not made any progress. Your grades, they were always so good. You’re so smart. But it’s been months, Henry. Your dad and I won’t be here forever.”
He’s not sure whether she’s referring to their inevitable demise or her continued threats to sell the house and move closer to Laurel and her baby.
“I’m trying, and I don’t know what more you think I can do. There are only so many jobs I can apply for. There’s not even that many. And I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to make me feel worse than I already feel about this situation, but somehow you manage. So thanks.”
“I’m sorry, Henry, but it’s just… You could work in a restaurant.
A store. You could tutor kids. There are tons of part-time options until you find the right one.
At least then you could save up a little money while you’re searching.
” She tucks a section of hair behind her left ear.
It’s silky looking, newly trimmed and dyed.
That would explain her glorious absence for several hours the previous afternoon.
Henry laughs mirthlessly, his lips shaking with anger. He has a master’s degree. He isn’t going to serve overpriced food to people less intelligent and educated than he is. How dare she suggest such a thing?
He’s too old to storm away from his mom and slam the door, but he does it anyway.
“Henry,” she says, pleading, as he turns away from her.
He stops at the pantry on his way and snatches the bag of pretzels, and his mom gasps as though he pushed her. It’s petty, but he experiences a jolt of pleasure. He pulls the basement door shut roughly and descends the stairs.
He wonders whether his mother, who hasn’t worked since his older sister was born and is oblivious in so many ways, has caught on to the fact that the market isn’t the only reason why he’s been spinning his wheels.
He never told her about Lacey. About what he did.
He only said that his company was laying people off.
And that was what they called it, by agreement.
There would be no reference for him, even though he’d been a model employee in every respect except one, but he was permitted to say he’d been “laid off,” which sounded far more benign than “terminated for cause.” There was an NDA, signed by all. It was quite tidy. It was quite unfair.
When he wasn’t able to find a new job, he grew anxious about his dwindling savings, the cost of living so high downtown.
He had to give up his apartment and ask his parents if he could move back home—he didn’t have any friends with whom he was close enough, who might have let him crash on a sofa—and he told them that he’d been laid off, that the company was downsizing and he was unlucky.
It wasn’t entirely true, but close enough. And he always had felt unlucky, cursed.
His mother had seemed skeptical from the start. For a while, she pressed him on it, asked for more details: Who else was laid off? Are they expecting to do more? I didn’t read anything in the news about your company cutting jobs. But Henry hasn’t broken yet. And he won’t. He can’t.
A good mother would defend him. She’d believe him, perhaps more blindly than she should. She’d love him unconditionally. She’d be happy to have him home again, maintaining faith that he would get back on his feet in time.
Henry feels like his mother has only ever treated his sister to such unequivocal love. It’s almost as though she’s borne a grudge against him, for as long as he can remember, and he doesn’t know why. She’s his mother. How can she resent him, who is cut from her? She made him.
In the basement, Henry tears into the bag of pretzels. They don’t taste good at all.